Warm Winter

A long time ago. Fiery youth, telepathic nightmare, in the name of romance. A rape of a certain kind of innocence, by a certain kind of opulence, a certain kind of popularity. Suggestions, for vain creation, in the hands and the pen of another. Darkness in a heart that sought for love. And so far from love, her deception and deceit, or were these things related to love? So long ago in December, in a cold country, whose present was emptiness without art. And the art, the attraction, it tried to kill itself and move away to a peaceful and easier place, today in a different December the same feeling, at a different time of life, youth has given way to age, and age is a rebel here, it smiles at time and looks in reverse at the wrongs. And today, this memory is unnecessary but it is alive nonetheless. There is no darkness in the clear sky, and the sky has brightened, attempted to kiss the truth of personal experience, and anywhere to look, is just a place where electricity should be, art and love and living. And living is the highness, it embraces, and it enfolds, and it seeks accompaniment. And there is warmth in the winter air, a warmth that will not be denied, and it smiles in a warm way, and it senses love, and it wishes to convey the same.

The Fantasy of Truth

In the middle of the not knowing of knowing, distancing from the delusion, the fantasy of truth, foolish love and the memory of innocence, and a virtual explosion of colour and incandescence, intended and dreampt of, closing in to the magic of her beauty, surrendering to the captivation, remembrance of her irregular touch, my heart smiles on her still, and is at home with her,and it all comes to the point where I wonder and question the thought of memory, and if memory should consider the present, if a memory is a consideration of the past, she in her armour of status and acceptance and convention, and I consider the darkness in her sky, but no, I sense that there isn't, and yesterday was a dream that forgot about tomorrow, when there was no real tomorrow, the picture was exactly of the moment, the focus was on the now, and then on a frosty Friday, in the barbed wire cafe, the ruins of affection controlled by insincerity, and in the middle of not knowing, distancing from delusion, the fantasy of truth.

Just a Glance at a Moment in Time

Crowded into the corner, eyes searching for release, the loving heart and the electric eyes, powering, looking for their place, the muzak and its emptiness, and the vibrant force, and the living spirit, and life without touch, and looking to the sky for answers, and where is the sky anyway? and why should it provide answers? On earth this evening, descendants of the people of the ages of time, their colourful smiles and the vigilant love, and the walking of progression, and love making, life is bright and is searching in multiple directions, and the guy in his knowing, is lost to its truth, his world of black and white reality doesn't exist. I read about him in a newspaper article and he wasn't the person that he pretended to be, still, the target is in sight, and sometimes it likes to be evasive, it prefers to conceal itself, and when it conceals itself it can only make itself more visable than before, questions, are the beginning of the shattering of illusion, pictures tend to want to express some kind of definition, they look for some kind of solution, but alas a picture is a single moment, it can't provide any lasting answers, it is just a glance at a moment in time, and the mind is electric and it explodes, and it rapes conveniency, and eyes are on the moment, and the moment lies still, and it accepts.

Night of Dream

Night of dream, you are not afraid. You are a wild kaleidescope of my life. Yesterday suggesting the motions of tomorrow, and in the memories in the darkness. In the morning at the wake up, that's when decision begins. That's when the fear arises. And there is the journey from the power and the certainty to the questioning and the conclusion. And in the day, the reality is born, within a dream that was embraced and expressed, and in crazy sanity, the knives are out, for the unacceptable, the originality, the nerve of the dream. The question persists though: Should I forsake my dream for the sake of acceptable reality and ease in communication? Oh let me have the nerve of my dream. Let my consciousnesses merge, Let them be truth.

Thoughts from a Drowsy Evening

In the drowsy evening, boozy regret, the naked trees of late autumn, passive, without expression, there is nothing to be known from them, seeking to be inside of time, to lose anxiety, the flickering flame of the candle, teaching tranquility, within, complex simplicity, it mourns in a particular guilt, concerning feeling, and yesterday still appears to be present in the today, and freedom urges abandonment, and a smile rises, and there is something in the picture that speaks of time, and all that it can mean right now, and speak of, is of ages, and this is the kind of time, that has no government nor movement, an eternal thing without beginning nor end, And God is lateral to the life, and the movement increases without recognition, I guess, that however God is peceived, would prefer it to be, there is now no light, nor is there darkness, this is a place of wonderment, and there is silence there, and it is dignity, and it is alive with compassion, and there are no questions, and there is no conclusion, not now, right now.

Magic, the Beautiful Extreme

Extreme beauty enters into magic. Becomes miraculous, for the pure of heart, the true lovers. And in the place of magic, the world explodes, and for the discerning, the seeking, a homely place in on hand. And all kinds of love are available in this place, that you have arrived at, the love of lovers, and the love within friendship, the key to the magic is love. I was informed of this, and I will never forget the wisdom of the lady who cared to share it with me. And I abandoned her and set myself free, just like I feel, that she had wanted me to. She believed in prayer, and she prayed for me, and I wondered if prayer was also the casting of a spell, a psychical wish, an act of love, asking for magic, to colour the spirit of the cared for.

Almost Twice Upon a Time

Almost twice upon a time. The collision of the sameness. And separation in the sense of the real. And yesterday, long ago, the simple love and the simple sorrow of the young, and later on, a smile of kind understanding. The same things arise. They feel the same embrace, they have the same need, but development has made things richer and greater. And there can be no condescending to youth and its age, and its mind. And December just before Christmas has a sense of time about it. It seems to stand still and wonder. The chill and the people in haste, the traffic in the city, the fired eyes, the expectation, the dream, the imagining, the anticipation, There was strength in the feeling within me today, I turned away from her, and I turned to truth. Somewhere inside of this wilderness, there is warmth, and it speaks from the heart, and it loves. And nighttime darkness, is shy on cheer. It asks to be considered for the way that it obviously, apparently is and no more. But within the darkness, stars shine in optimism, seeking not to be ignored. It may be winter in the seasons of the year, but blinding to the dark, the sun shines within, smiles, and provokes. And the cold, can only still one into warming. And the warming air envelopes, and challenges one to prosper. There is something in the air this evening, and it cares, and it desires. It refuses to stand still, and it prompts, and it teases, and it looks for answers.

The Dawning of Tomorrow

Far away, the future, my intention, my being in another place, temporarily. Beckoning, I gaze into the eyes of wonder. Dreaming I gaze into the eyes of unreality. And then there is the distance between the dream and unreality, and the distance between the dream and reality. And the mind, the thinking mind, is short on truth, and it stills in this awareness. And in the world of spirit, the feeling rises, after a world of living in a world of pretend affection. And the attraction lives, is still wanting to embrace me in its apparent lie. And in an ancient time of life, a face reemerges, clearly before the eyes of my memory. Truth, is on its own, in its purity, in itself, in its perfection. And I look into the eyes of her heart, and all I can see is delusion. Love is nowhere to be seen, and inside of me, springs unease, and springs antipathy. And I have seen the words and the feeling of the words that her apparent soul spoke to me, and I'm stirred somehow to reject any kind of anger. And the music is silent, has changed its course, and is searching for itself, quietly yet again. Inside of life, the eyes are firing, and everything is yesterday, and tomorrow, must be managed, entered into. And I wonder why she was there at that particular time, and why I was also. And I look away from yesterday to the dawning of tomorrow.

Witchy Love and the Priestess

Witchy love and the Priestess, on the Sunday morning stand. We go our very different ways. I stand alone in a world that she does not know. I remind myself not to close in on her. Still, I have to remind myself of what might have been. It was all some crazy dream or was it some possibility? And did she listen to the words and the music? And did she understand the things that I tried to say to her? And did she realise that the things that she said to me, spoke to my soul? Turning away in the aftermath, if there really is an aftermath, and if it is really a turning away, haunts my commitment, my honesty, my truth. And I was thinking of her appropriateness and I cared to think that she was going to be ok. I had heard the word the word before, and I was informed that it meant destruction. And tonight, all the world in my world wants me to care for her and hold her in my caring dream. Somewhere, away from a certain reality, I sense her, and feel that she senses me also. And is she dark as the nighttime? And is she apart from love? And am I a part of her truth? And where is truth as regards the magic? And what happened to that magic anyway? Did it disappear or did she ignore its possibillity? I guess that the end is the end, but my feeling can have no end. My feeling is real, and it is with her always.

Monday Morning

The angel cries, the mirror beckons, a reflection that is not of another's success. Dark haired Hispanic bella, and she is so inviting, and I greet her with a sympathetic smile. Yesterday faded into today. The morning sought to awaken me away from comfortable simplicity. And on Sean McDermott Street in the middle of the morning, I recognised a face as it recognised mine. She says I should visit, be familiar, and I smile, and I remember that she remembered, with some kind of impressiveness. Dark is her beauty and light is her heart, and loving is her countenance. Memories of ancient love, envelope and the sun comes to play, looking me straight in the eye. And in the dream there was a Spanish Galleon, and in the dream there was fire, and outside of the dream, all was illusion. And the dream and the reality found unity with themselves. And I heard a sad song on the radio, of love that had walked away by itself, where destiny had refused. And on O'Connell Street, she stood there wondering, about her memory and the words that she spoke to me with. And I tell myself to be easy and turn just slightly from her, to what I believe is my truth. And the authorities were on the raid on Moore Street this morning, and they were weak in their strength, and I was secretly pleased. I walked my way home in the early afternoon, with a smile and a memory of ancient times. Love was in the air and its colour was magic.

Prayer

Paint me with your love. Let your soul close into mine. Eyes to the sky, and seeking the gift. And this moment of this day, let it exactly be all that there is. Let there be no nighttime. Let us be indivisable, let the moon enter our hearts. Let there be love, and let the love be righteous, and let it strengthen and let it run wild and let it be free. and let the music listen, and let it find harmony, and let our love be a prayer, and let the prayer be heard by the God of love. And may the God of love embrace our togetherness, our selfishness, our aloneness, our oneness.